


Tell Me What You See

by ByeByeHoverfly



Series: Turn Into [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, First Kiss, First Meetings, Gender Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Light Angst, M/M, Paul is trans, Teenagers, Trans Male Character, also there's a mention of catcalling/sexual harassment of an underage person, like early 2010's i guess?, some inspiration from their meeting scene in nowhere boy bc I saw a clip on youtube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25055278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByeByeHoverfly/pseuds/ByeByeHoverfly
Summary: On the day he met John Lennon, Paul McCartney was wearing a woolen nightmare of a dress. Things can only go up from here, really.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: Turn Into [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837249
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	1. Don't Look At Me Like That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approx. 3.3k words of Paul being angsty, confused and problematically into John, with a bit of an unintended cliffhanger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first fic I've written in a long while…and I'd like to say I've gotten better over time, but it's less likely than you'd think! I might end up making this a mostly unstructured/plotless multi-chapter thing if my trans!paul muse so demands, but so far there's just going to be the two (more on that in end notes).

It was the first Saturday evening Paul'd spent alone in what felt like months, and his early start to bed hadn't done him any good as far as getting to sleep. He was trying not to dwell on what he might otherwise be doing at that moment—maybe heaving his tired bones into bed after a pleasantly draining gig, if he was lucky, or listening to one of his mates heaving dinner into a grotty toilet, if he was less so.

He especially didn't want to to think of padding up the staircase of a sleepy home in Woolton, mind already settling into the unique calm meant only for him and John and a cramped teenage bedroom. Because he hadn't stepped foot in that particular house once this past week—and might not do for a long time still, although he didn't want to think too hard on that.

Things with John had met a rough edge lately. Though Paul regretted their latest falling out—as he always hated any rift opening between him and his best mate—Paul honestly didn't think he knew what could've been done differently. The final blow, as it were, was obvious enough; still, it was ever clearer to Paul that they'd been on this trajectory for quite a while. Probably even since that summer day a year and a half ago, when the still-mysterious cogs of their relationship had first clicked into place.

Paul knew his own behavior that day had been a bit off, a bit more daring than the remarkably mild-mannered Scouser would usually have allowed himself. His weary brain attributed this lapse mostly to one fact: on the day he met John Winston Lennon, Paul McCartney had been wearing a dress.

The thing itself had been a Christmas gift from one of his great aunties, which his father insisted he wear for her day visit even though Auntie Annie was coming to Forthlin Road during the absolute pits of summer. The garment in question, despite rather inexplicably imitating the style and colouring of a sundress, was made of a heavy woolen fabric singularly unfit (and likely unsafe, in Paul's opinion) for any temperature above "mildly freezing."

Even worse for Paul, who hated wearing dresses full stop. It had always put him in an ugly mood—a fact long-since-established by the many school skirts crumpled with particular loathing into the McCartneys' laundry, not to mention countless scraped-up knees and rubbed-red eyes (which had always seemed to follow a tiny Paul home on days he'd been sent out in a frock). Paul's gains in maturity over the years were no indication of a change in attitude. Frankly, Jim McCartney was lucky his first-born made an effort to be as courteous as he was, otherwise there was no way that woolen abomination would ever have seen the light of day.

Still, the morning spent with his extended family on Forthlin was easily tolerable, especially as his lovely cousin Bett had also come round with her little boy. But then the family had picked up and gone off to see a summer festival. Paul wasn't sure how his great auntie—robust for someone in her eighties, but in her eighties all the same—had remained firmly on her feet that day; he himself was hardly standing after a half hour. Stifling enough in their sitting room with all the windows thrown open, the woolen dress was utter misery in the heat that radiated off the pavements downtown—muggy air had met with the sweat beading on his back, dampening his overgrown thneed of an outfit. It sagged pathetically, dead weight round his neck.

(Paul's mind had flashed back to a painting hung in the RC church he'd attended (spottily) as a kid—a smiling Jesus of Nazareth with a sheep slung over his shoulders. He wondered if he'd ever be able to hear that Good Shepherd parable again without smelling sweat-logged wool.)

Paul's attention, in dire need of some distraction, had eventually fallen on a distant muddle of people in the far corner of a patch of land. It was a motley lot, giving the slight impression that a primary school's sports day had been crashed by a group of local toughs, and was currently breaking for lunch round a parked lorry. Atop the lorry's long flatbed was band equipment. Paul spied a few apparent band members as well, including one older boy in a puffer coat and trackies who was helping a group of three young girls in Guide uniforms to climb one-by-one onto the platform, leap off, and clamber back up again.

The whole scene was being surveyed with an odd intensity by what must have been the band's frontman. Paul could see him still strumming his guitar, and apparently singing, despite most of his band seeming to have abandoned him in favor of food from carts or shade from trees. _If you can't stand heat, don't dress for January_ , Paul had mused, feeling sympathy for the singer (and wishing he could have followed his own advice). His feet had started carrying him over to the group almost of their own accord.

At first, the only thing Paul had been able to make out amidst the general racket was the almost-steady _thumb-thump_ ing of a bass. Once he was actually in range to catch some notes, Paul was surprised to hear a distinct doo-wop sound to the progression—something he was used to from his father's records, but didn't expect from a Scouse lad who looked to be playing his guitar as if beating the strings dry. He found himself humming a lopsided version of a Maurice Williams tune as he made his way over to the band.

Paul soon recognized the song as an old hit from the Del Vikings, but he didn't recognize the lyrics as anyone's. Must have been the boy's own; Paul even heard him mumble something about penitentiaries, which he'd assumed was nonsense till the song blended into Bob Dylan's _I Shall Be Released_. To say Paul was surprised would have been an understatement—he didn't often meet people his age who appreciated the same music he did, and while Dylan wasn't a deep cut by any measure, Paul had the feeling that this boy must value the music he played for more than just entertaining a group of kiddies and putting some money in his pocket.

Paul had thoroughly enjoyed what he saw from what remained of the band, including an unusual number he amusedly deduced to be a Paramore song performed in the style of Elvis. Unfortunately, their set was soon over—or so Paul assumed when the singer hopped off the platform and disappeared—and Paul was back to feeling stifled and droopy.

He'd been only too glad to be plucked out of the crowds by a friendly schoolmate, and even gladder when he realised where—or really, to whom—Ivan would end up dragging him. They'd found themselves in a church hall, where Paul got relief in the form of air con and excitement in the form of several young lads he recognized from the doo-wop/folk/alt-rock outfit.

Paul's eyes had scanned the room eagerly. He'd quickly found the singer—a bloke maybe a year or two older than himself, a cigarette in his mouth, curled lip to match curled hair. Brown eyes that had narrowed when he'd seen the pair walking towards him. "Aright Ivy? Caught one bird with your two stones, then, have you?" He'd tossed his chin cheekily in Paul's direction.

Ivan's eyes had shifted between them. "Hey, John. This here's Polly," he'd said.

This had received a blank look.

"Polly McCartney, yeah? The mate of mine? I've told you we play together." Ivan and Paul had often met up to fiddle casually with their guitars, and didn't even sound too bad (although Ivan himself would readily admit this was mostly thanks to Paul's growing talents).

" _Play together_?" John had arched his heavy eyebrows affectedly. "Beats playing with yourself, I guess." His faux-contemplative look had shifted into a toothy smirk, as his hand made a wanking motion. "Although that's good for your strummin', y'know—loosens up the wrist."

John had been meeting Paul's gaze, casually ignoring Ivan's growing awkwardness. Paul had caught a low-simmering challenge in his those wide pupils. It made him conscious of how he looked in that moment: baby-faced, draped in his auntie's knit dress. So he'd simply nodded and pursed his lips as if to consider John's claim, examining the fingers of his left hand with mock seriousness. "I s'pose well-moisturized fingers do grow better calluses."

Paul caught the delayed startle this drew from some of the lads nearby, not least of all from Lennon himself. But John was back in form a second later.

"So you play, then, do you Polly?" Drawling, with a grin.

"With meself? Or with one of those?" A gesture, hand extended towards the guitar hanging about John's hips.

John's eyes had flown downwards towards his crotch, before landing on the instrument that sat there. Again, he'd composed himself quickly: "Either. Both."

Paul'd shrugged. "Both, then."

And he _had_ played that day—had been a real sport, matching all of John's vulgar comments with wit and rot of his own. It was worth the confused looks Ivan had shot his way, just to stake out a respectable (in one manner of speaking) place for himself alongside someone he'd quickly come to think of as a kindred spirit. It was worth the whole bloody _day_ , wool included, when John had favored him with a genuine smile and the nickname _Macca_.

Paul had quickly cottoned on to the particular type of security that came from befriending John: he could expect occasional outbursts, a natural amount of piss-taking among mates, but a brotherly solidarity in the face of the rest of the world. Once, a month or two after their meeting, a man had hollered at him on the street while John was by his side. Just some dickheaded comment about tits. Paul'd felt his face flush in spite of himself, feeling suddenly and horribly self-conscious. He could deal with hecklers—it was always a headache, sure, but as a lifelong city-dweller he'd grown used to worse, and at least he was on a well-lit, populated street. His embarrassment had more to do with John being there to witness it, and even the absurd feeling that this man's remark about his breasts would finally be what reminded John of the fact that he, y'know, _had_ them. That shoe had never fully dropped in their relationship up to that point.

Paul had been nervous, having witnessed John go after men who'd leered at the girls he was out with—it was a protective thing, verging on a possessive thing, and some part of him understood that that treatment from a friend would be worse than any crude shout from a stranger.

But he needn't really have worried. John had immediately turned in the direction of the voice (though Polly reckoned his near-blindness would have stopped him actually seeing who'd spoken) and hiked his own shirt up to his chin, telling the man in a squeaking falsetto to "Have a good look at 'em," before screwing up his face and dropping his voice to snarl "yer rat-faced cunt!" He'd not even seemed to notice curious looks from passersby, just turned back to Paul with a shake of his head and a few choice words about _getting out of this shitehole someday, Macca_.

Paul was under no illusion that roadside creeps were unique to Liverpool, but hadn't chose that moment to say so—had simply allowed John's shoulder to knock against his own as they continued side-by-side down the street.

Their easy camaraderie was always a comfort to Paul. He even felt proud to be considered a real and true match for the laddish, loutish Lennon. Mind, Paul had never been the sort of person to eschew female company or slag off girls his age just to seem like "one of the lads"—after all, he'd always got on well with girls, who'd made up the majority of his social groups all his life. But being embraced as a member of John's inner circle still gave him a distinct, glowy warmth in his chest.

It wasn't like Paul had never had male friends before, although he'd never really had a group of them, per se. There was Ivan, obviously, and there was George Harrison, a holdover from the days before puberty had thrown a spanner point-blank into his social life.

That was certainly a valuable mate to have around: George, who didn't censor his roughest language around Paul or blush when they sat close on his bed; George whose mum didn't mind him sleeping over in her son's room, who'd shrug and toss him some old sweatpants to sleep in when they realised just how late into the night they'd sat up with their guitars. With Geo there was none of the awkwardness or innuendo that tripped up many an inter-gender friendship among their peers. This was a massive relief.

Paul was hard pressed to find any other guy—any other person, really—his age who didn't think of him at least somewhat in relation to his physical attractiveness. Reaching an age where dating was typical had made Paul's physical attributes relevant in a way they'd never been before—which might not have been so awful if he'd been on friendlier terms with said "attributes". (Or, a quiet part of him could admit, if they didn't just unnerve him right down to his core.) The closer Paul got to adulthood, the less he was allowed to escape his own appearance.

Last autumn, in a moment of frustration, Paul had hacked off the long hair he'd lazily let grow for years. (As he thought on the subject, Paul wondered vaguely if he'd been wearing an awful dress that day, as well.) His father and gaggle of aunties had been horrified at him, walking about all scraggly-like in front of God and everybody. He'd got more than a few sideways glances going about his day, though most people were too much polite (or either too little arsed) to insult him outright; one of his more tactful classmates had even paid a compliment, telling Paul that she'd never been brave enough to get what she (generously) termed a "pixie cut."

He'd thanked her, but somehow _that_ response had actually pissed him off the most—that even when he'd given himself the amorphous mop of hair possible, people still strained themselves to see it through a feminine lens. "Pixie cut"— _wonder if anybody saw Dylan's mane of hair and told him he was growing a "pixie cut"? Fuckin' doubt it._

But George, good old George hadn't even noticed at first. He and Paul had caught a bus into the city from Speke that afternoon, and had made it clear to Parliament Street before George had squinted at him with a casual _Got a haircut, did you?_

John, on the other hand, had only needed one look at the poorly-shorn McCartney turned up on his doorstep—then he'd given a bark of bright laughter, asking Paul if he'd _finally fallen in with those little ketwig twats runnin' round yer neighbourhood, then?_ and letting him inside with an easy grin. When his Aunt Mimi had stared, aghast, at the young heretofore-only-figurative scruff in her kitchen, John had simply rolled his eyes and begun plucking at Paul's hair in imitation of a fussy mum or auntie. _What've ye done ter yer bee-yoo-ti-ful hair, luv? Much too low, this, i_ _t's hangin' down over your ears. Or else your ears are much too high…_

The nonchalance both John and George had shown towards Paul's appearance was worthy of the goldest of stars, and part of why Paul considered them two of his closest friends. But it soon became obvious to the then newly fifteen-year-old that something was vitally different about John in particular. Whilst his friendship with George still held fast to its roots in childhood intimacy—uncomplicated, like two pre-teens eternally shooting the breeze on the bus to school—John had a way of making Paul feel awkwardly but thrillingly like a soon-to-be adult.

This was partly, Paul reckoned, because John had introduced him to a more independent lifestyle. They made money playing gigs they'd booked for themselves, and casually crashed in their mates' bedrooms or basements rather than phoning somebody's mum to arrange a sleepover. They made their own schedules, in which they carved out much more time for each other than either of their respective parental figures approved of—or probably their teachers either, knowing how often the two ignored class work or bunked off school altogether to play and write music. ("Independent", in this case, shouldn't be taken to mean "responsible"—nor should it be interpreted in the context of alcohol dependency, as Paul was actually starting to have some worries on that front with certain members of John's entourage.)

But aside from teenaged antics, Paul knew the way he felt about John himself wasn't entirely childlike. This was clear from the first time he'd seen John in his thick-framed glasses, the sudden flush in his cheeks hinting at something he'd only experienced a few times, and fleetingly, with cute-faced girls in school. It was hardly rare since then for Paul to notice his own gaze lingering on the older lad's bold eyebrows, his big nose, his sturdy shoulders. On one puzzling occasion, he'd found himself gone dry-mouthed from catching a glimpse of John's armpit hair as he'd stretched in his chair. Paul was just dead fascinated by John's physicality—by the way his grins always seemed to flicker between sparkling and wolfish, by the way he spoke through his nose when he thought someone was being particularly thick, by the confidence and broadness of his movements.

No matter how he practiced in front of his mirror, Paul couldn't recapture John's self-assured gait or the slouch of his shoulders. Neither could he, with any amount of hair gel or loose flannel or even makeup witchery he'd picked up from a patient cousin, mould his own baby face and doe eyes into anything resembling "roguishly handsome". So John was alternately a source of desire and frustration for Paul—who at this point could easily admit to himself that he was a mess of hormones, practically all the time, and no one sent those chemicals running haywire quite like John Lennon.

Still, for all his ruminating, Paul had paid hardly any mind to the possibility that his attraction to John was anything but utterly one-sided. His nascent feelings felt intensely private—thrilling to mull over in the safety of his skull, but still too fragile to exist anyplace else.

( _Or, worse, to be laid out and stripped of their all-too-thin skin by Lennon's caustic mouth._ A well-known, well-proven capacity for cruelty was something Paul was still loath to admit about his friend, and even less eager to experience for himself.)

All in all, the prospect of John realising or reciprocating his attraction let loose a swarm of butterflies in Paul's gut, only some of which were of the good sort. It also seemed decidedly unlikely; John was never the most subtle of flirts, and Paul was sure he would've noticed if he'd ever been looked at with the unique mixture of mischief and tenuously-bridled lust reserved for the conquests of John Lennon. What's more, Paul didn't really want John to look at him _that_ way—the way that meant he was enticed by soft curves, soft blonde hair, a sultry voice, full lips; the way he looked at attractive women. The very idea sent a chill through Paul's bones even as it made his blood run hot. No, there was really no point in considering that hypothetical—or so the more squeamish of Paul's instincts had reassured him—because his was a pointless question with no good answer, and he'd only end up driving himself mad(der).

If only Paul's instincts weren't hardwired to make his life more difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stopped here not so much because it seemed appropriate, but because a migraine+screen situation had quickly become unsustainable. Gonna go ahead and ignore that sign from the universe, though, and try to get the second chapter up this week when my brain is functional! (Or at least working at its baseline, which is probably somewhat less-than.)
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for reading! Appreciate ye. <3


	2. Links to Resources

I should note that the descriptions in this work are informed by my own memories of child-/early teenage-hood, along with our main characters' as-of-yet limited understanding of gender-y things (though I can't think whose understanding isn't limited, if we're honest with ourselves). It's definitely not a guidebook on matters of gender identity or sexuality. That said, why not share some resources? Especially since we're living in the age of COVID and everything's gone to shit.

(Created/updated 6 July 2020)

UK & Ireland:

TransUnite (UK): a directory of UK-based local and online support groups for trans people ([https://www.transunite.co.uk/](https://www.transunite.co.uk/))

Gender Construction Kit (UK): a wealth of information regarding legal, medical, and social gender transition, as well as links to general resources ([https://genderkit.org.uk/](https://genderkit.org.uk/))

Stonewall Scotland's resource list (UK): a by-region list of social and support groups for queer, trans and intersex people of colour ([https://www.stonewallscotland.org.uk/about-us/news/qtipoc-organisations-you-should-know-about](https://www.stonewallscotland.org.uk/about-us/news/qtipoc-organisations-you-should-know-about))

Transgender Equality Network Ireland: provides advocacy and support for the trans community in Ireland ([https://www.teni.ie/](https://www.teni.ie/))

U.S. & Canada:

Trevor Project (USA): online chat and phone lifelines for LGBTQ youth in the U.S., as well as educational materials ([https://www.thetrevorproject.org/resources/trevor-support-center/](https://www.thetrevorproject.org/resources/trevor-support-center/))

National Black Trans Advocacy Coalition (USA): advocacy group serving Black trans people in the U.S. (and providing important COVID-19 resources!) ([https://blacktrans.org/](https://blacktrans.org/))

Trans Lifeline (Canada & USA): support hotline for trans people; also provides microgrants to people in the U.S. for changing names & gender markers on ID documents ([https://www.translifeline.org/](https://www.translifeline.org/))

Egale (Canada): advocacy and education work for the LGBTQI2S community in Canada / activités de plaidoyer et de sensibilisation au nom de la communauté LGBTQI2S au Canada ([https://egale.ca/](https://egale.ca/))

Liste de ressources ASTTeQ (Québec, CA) : une liste d'organismes et de services orientés vers les habitant.e.s trans du Québec ([http://www.astteq.org/fr/ressources.html](http://www.astteq.org/fr/ressources.html))

International:

Transgender Map: a compilation of transition-related info, with links to relevant resources at the bottom of each page; mostly U.S.-based, but country-specific links under Resources > International ([https://www.transgendermap.com/](https://www.transgendermap.com/))

Trevor Project's international resource list: links to suicide hotlines, international advocacy organisations, and LGBTQ-specific asylum, refuge and migration resources ([https://www.thetrevorproject.org/trvr_support_center/international/](https://www.thetrevorproject.org/trvr_support_center/international/))

Transgender Europe: trans advocacy in Europe and Central Asia ([https://tgeu.org/](https://tgeu.org/))

If there's anything I oughta add/modify, let me know! Stay safe everybody.


	3. Trying Their Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's been an arsehole, but he's getting better. Paul is grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a continuation of the first chapter + me remembering that idk how to write dialogue

The details of last Saturday afternoon had been looping in Paul's anxious memory for the past week. They'd been in John's room, having moved on from trying to decide what to stream on Netflix to looking over some fresh attempts at lyrics. It had been a good time: Paul enjoyed chasing John's scrawls across the glossy, still-stiff pages of his Chemistry textbook ( _I wonder what the odds are that this has been opened more than twice?_ ). He smiled to think that a year or so before, he wouldn't have had a _dream_ of deciphering John's chicken scratch, barely legible where it wound round dry blocks of text and doodles of walruses in bowler hats devouring Lewis dot structures.

Paul had been tapping out a rhythm with his pen when he'd noticed, out of the corner of his eye, his friend giving him an especially intense stare.

"Alright there?" Paul had queried neutrally, though he'd kept his eyes fixed on an ink walrus's beady ones. (He'd discovered that "neutral" was the best approach towards an unreadable Lennon. "Neutral" didn't usually get your head bitten off before you got more than a word in.)

"Eh? Oh, yeah, fine. Fine." But John hadn't shifted his gaze.

"What's it you're staring at me for, then?"

No reply had come. Paul had turned to John to ask a follow-up, but had fallen instantly quiet as a pair of chapped lips covered his own.

And all at once, Paul was overly conscious of his own breathing. He could hear it quickening where it puffed warm against John's cheek. He could smell men's soap—some _Fresh Blast_ , or _Winter Steel_ , or _Forest Cannon_ something or other that he secretly loved using when he showered at John's. A roughness had grazed against Paul's chin, and he'd had the vague thought that John—not being a naturally hairy lad—must not have shaved for a few days.

There were fresh calluses on fingers, a strong hand cradling Paul's jaw. All he'd known to do was to return a soft pressure against John's lips, but John hadn't seemed to mind. Neither did Paul, really. The warm glow from John's lamp and the soft shuffling of bedsheets had made him feel secure—like a little boy just after he's been tucked into bed, just before his mother has left and let the monsters in behind her. In that moment Paul was sweet and light and finely-spun, his insides turned to candy floss.

And then the lips were gone, as abruptly as they'd come. John was pulling back slightly, breathing out against Paul's lips—soft, almost bewildered chuckles that made Paul's heart dance on clumsy feet.

The hand on Paul's jaw had guided him to meet John's eyes, which had been crinkled at the corners with a rare boyish glee. The same hand had dragged its thumb across Paul's bottom lip.

John sounded almost reverent as he'd whispered: " _You're beautiful_."

And, _fuck_.

For reasons Paul had yet to fully understand and maybe never will, those words were as good as if John had flung the Chemistry book into his stomach. Paul had had to stop himself from wincing; he'd tried to keep the candy floss from melting into a sticky, nauseating goop in his chest cavity, but he knew something bad had shown on his face because John's smile wavered and a familiar edge of panic came into his eyes.

Paul shuddered as he remembered that flicker of fear. He shouldn't have let it go any farther—should have reassured John then and there that his hesitance had nothing to do with John, had everything to do with _him_ , with confusing feelings he's had since childhood that John had no way of knowing about. Letting a silence last long enough for John's insecurities to get a word in edgewise was never a good idea.

But Paul—he'd been tongue-tied. He hadn't been able to spill his own guts for John's benefit, whether from fear or a finally-reached limit set by his pride, he wasn't sure. He'd simply sat in resignation to the oncoming storm. And John had taken it in the worst way.

The next few minutes had been a painful mess, John ricocheting between denial ( _Why've ye got to be such a fuckin' prude about it? S'just a kiss, doesn't mean shit!_ ) and blame ( _And what about you, leadin' me on? Didn't take you for a slag, Macca—d'ye give those fuck-me eyes to just any bloke, then?_ ). Paul'd tried to keep his own temper in check, which he'd cursed himself for afterwards—he knew good and well that charging up against a brick wall would only make John more vigorous in his attacks, determined to break through by targeted blows or brute force.

(And _Christ_ , even if John ever wanted him back in his house, Mimi might not; the part of Paul that was well-raised above all else shuddered at the noise they must've been making so late in the night. He hadn't been thinking about disturbing neighbours when he'd stormed out of John's house—he'd only been thinking of getting home and shutting himself in his room, where there were no sharp tongues and no eyes to look at him.)

Thing was, Paul knew John had been talking more or less out of his arse. He was sure that Lennon—having little to no tolerance for people who irritated him—would never have kept Paul around for so long if he truly got nothing out of their friendship. It also helped that Paul had heard similarly hurtful words slung at pretty much everybody in their orbit. But John's particular choice of barbs—and if John were to be called artful about anything, it would be his words—did itch at Paul. He wondered if anybody who could call him a skank in one breath could claim to respect him in another. 

And what really hurt Paul about the gendered insults, aside from general disrespect, was that they forced Paul to acknowledge something he'd always known on some level. Whatever their relationship might look like from Paul's end, John still saw him as a girl—had been attracted to him as a girl, had possibly been developing feelings all this time for _Polly McCartney_.

And Paul did want desperately for John to like him; he almost ached for it. But another, deeper ache had been with him longer. Paul knew that, in the end, he'd have to pick being able to live with himself over being the object of John's affections. It wasn't even a choice, really. But that didn't make it less painful.

Paul sighed at himself as he noted that, wonder of wonders, dwelling on his deep-seated personal issues hadn't brought the sleep he'd been looking for.

Try as he might over the next hour or two, Paul had little success at quieting his brain. He tried to focus on the sound of wind in the tree outside, then on the soft _clink-clink_ of the heating, then on the faint shapes cast by moonlight on his rug. But he remained distracted—enough that it took a while for him to realise the clinking noise wasn't coming from the furnace. Once he'd had the thought, Paul's eyes zeroed in on his window.

He swung his legs out of bed, soothing what remained of his self-respect by telling himself that he was _only going to check what was making the noise_ , and that he _really ought to make sure the glass wasn't damaged, anyway_. He shoved the window open into the frigid night and peered out at darkness. When a piece of gravel sailed by his head, Paul realised that myopic eyes had probably missed window opening and he quickly flicked on his lamp to alert the boy below. (Because he did know it was John, of course he did.)

Paul squinted down and John squinted up, neither speaking. Eventually, Paul nodded towards the front door, and after receiving a nod in return he slunk down the stairs to let John inside. Both teenagers were well familiar with navigating 20 Forthlin Road's floorboards as silently as possible; the only sound as they climbed up to Paul's room was the violent chattering of John's teeth.

Back in the bedroom, Paul took a seat on his bed as John shut the door behind them. John turned around slowly, avoiding Paul's eyes. Neither seemed willing to break the silence.

"I don't want us to fight," John finally muttered.

Paul snorted but didn't say anything. He wanted to patch things up, sure—would probably break down and forgive John the second he showed proper remorse—but he did have some dignity to preserve, and even Lennon had to hear how lame that sounded.

Eventually John must've taken the cue that more was needed, because he bent his head low as if in shame and opened his mouth to try again. "I shouldn't've said all that—you're not a slag, or a tease, or whatever the hell else I called you."

He stopped then and heaved a sigh, peering up at Paul through his fringe. His wide eyes looked oddly innocent in that moment—for a cat person, Paul thought, he looked very like a puppy. And damnit if Paul hadn't always had a soft spot for dogs.

"I know ye didn't mean it, John," Paul sighed, and thought it was almost funny how John perked right up at those words.

"Of course I fuckin' didn't, Macca! I just say shit, me. Besides, when've you ever known me to hang round people I think are slags?"

Paul's eyebrows arched towards his choppy fringe. "…d'ye really want me to answer that?"

" _I mean_ for over a year, without any kind of pay-off," John huffed.

That made Paul frown. "Sorry if you were expecting a 'pay-off', but—"

"No, I don't mean with you!" John rushed to clarify, "You're me mate, ye don't owe me anything."

"And those other girls do?"

"No! No, God, I didn't mean it that way." John ran one hand through his hair while the other fidgeted by the hem of his shirt. "Thought ye said ye understood, about me spewing bullshit most of the time."

Paul snorted. "Well…doesn't mean I can't hope for better, yeah? I'm an optimist." This was true—most of all when it came to John.

"Delusional, more like."

"This is shaping up to be a stellar apology, Lennon."

Paul had meant it as a joke—hadn't expected John to sober up the way he did.

"I _am_ sorry, Paul. For saying all those things, and for…for crossin' a line."

There were numerous things John could have been referring to, there, but somehow Paul knew exactly what he was talking about. "You don't have to apologise for that part," he insisted, "it was what came after that crossed the line."

"No, I mean, I think I do—nobody should be forced to kiss some creep when all they came to do was watch Netflix."

"You didn't force me, John, I…" Paul chewed on his lip, "I kissed you back, didn't I?"

"Erm…did you?"

Well, if that wasn't a lackluster review of Paul's kissing abilities, he didn't know what was. He felt his cheeks flush.

"'Cos it's fine if you didn't!" John seemed to misinterpret this embarrassment as Paul trying to spare his feelings. "I know we're not… _like that_ , and it was something I just sprung on you, and what did I expect, really? I'm lucky enough to have you as a mate, y'know—if you're not attracted to me, who the fuck could blame ye?"

"It's not that I don't like you, John. I do—er, fancy you, that is." Paul grimaced at how very like a ten-year-old he sounded.

John's eyes went as round as the curls in his quiff. "What, seriously?"

"Well, aye."

"Oh…was the kissing just too much, then?" John still looked stunned but not at all unhappy with the idea. "Or too sudden? Because I won't pressure you, Macca; we could go slow, like…"

Quiet hung heavy in the room as John trailed off. When he realised Paul wasn't going to respond, his face fell flat in record time.

"Ye don't want to," John muttered.

"No, it's—"

"Fuckin' _Lennon_ , fucking up every damn shot ye get—"

"Not like _that_ , John, shit!" This time, Paul made sure to put the stop on Hurricane Lennon before it swept them both away. "Y'gotta believe me, it's just…" Paul huffed. "It's _me_. I mean, I don't wanna go through the 'ole _it's not you, it's me_ thing, tha's not what I'm trying to say…only, it's just something I'm going through. Personally."

John sifted through this jumble of words and seemed to come away with something that concerned him. He came to sit beside Paul on the bed. "Is there…somethin' goin' on, Pol'? Are y'okay?"

Sympathy had seeped into John's voice, and the boy was looking with Paul with such earnestness that he was suddenly reminded of past midnight conversations—hushed voices, cramped beds, silent tears over their dead mothers. Affection warmed in his chest, and he decided John, for all his flaws, deserved the effort of an explanation.

Or maybe "deserved" was a step too far—but John _was_ Paul's best mate, and Paul wanted to try to explain. (Which would be easier, come to think of it, if Paul could explain these things properly to himself.)

He took a moment to gather his thoughts before taking a shot. "I…I like that you're attracted to me. I do. What I don't like…is the _me_ you're attracted to. 'Cos you're attracted to _girls_ , John."

John looked a bit awkward at that statement. He cast his eyes towards the ceiling, twisting his shoulders and taking an uncharacteristic care to consider his options before responding: "I don't look at you any different for being a girl, Macca. And I'm a big boy—it's not like we can't be friends just 'cos I think you're attractive. It's the twenty first century, 'n all."

"That's not it." Paul hadn't come this far to not get his point across. "It's not like I've a problem with girls, or with women. Or even with bein' a girl meself—in _principle_ , like. But in practice, it just…" Paul trailed off and shrugged helplessly. "Doesn't work for me. I dunno. Guess I'm just shite at it."

"At bein' a girl?" John squinted and cocked his head. "It's not like anybody's keeping score, yeah? I wouldn't say I'm particularly _good at_ being a bloke."

Paul hummed in acknowledgement, not knowing how to correct him. "Well, fair. Okay. But, uh…does it hurt you, when people point out that you're a bloke? Do you…erm, d'ye dread the idea of growing into a man?"

John gave a shake of his head and squinted even harder in confusion, looking worried now. Paul pressed on.

"Does it make you shrivel up inside if somebody calls you 'handsome'?"

That took a few quiet moments to sink in. _You're beautiful_.

" _Oh_. Is that why you…?"

"Yeah, sort of." Paul offered an awkward smile. "Sorry about that, by the way."

John waved away the apology like he was waving away the hurt he'd obviously felt, and Paul felt his heart grow even softer for the lad. "Nah, _I'm_ sorry. I was a complete dickhead t'ye. I was just confused, y'know—of all the lines I've used on birds before, _that's_ never been one to go over badly."

Paul opened his mouth, a retort already on his lips— _so you're admittin' to feedin' me lines, Lennon?_ Or maybe _I think that says more about the kinda girls ye pull_ —but what came out was "Well p'raps I ain't a bird, then."

There was a second where Paul held his breath and John's face remained frozen, looking as surprised by hearing the words as Paul felt for having said them. They sat staring at each other for five, ten seconds before Paul saw John's thin lips squish thinner, as if trying not to slide into a smile. There was a definite glitter in John's eyes as he spoke.

"No, perhaps y'ain't."

Sitting next to John just then, Paul was struck by just how special his friend really was. In spite of all the shortcomings of his upbringing, John _understood_ —would always _try_ to understand, at least. True, it wasn't always that John showed an empathetic side, and it wasn't with just anybody. But there were precious moments when the hard-fisted, loud-mouthed Scouser showed Paul the softest soul he'd ever come to know. And he fell harder for the lad every time.

For a few worrying instants Paul thought _oh_ fuck _me, what an idiot, I'm gonna cry_. But what sputtered from his mouth was more a laugh than a sob, and soon the two lads were both at it, flat on their backs on Paul's bedspread and shaking with the sort of gaspy laughter that comes more from stress than genuine amusement, but feels just as good coming out.

As their snorts receded into quiet sighs, Paul dared to look over his shoulder towards John. He wasn't even surprised this time to catch John already staring back.

"I'm still confused as hell," Paul said.

"You and me both, mate." John smirked. "Think I just found out I'm properly queer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly pleased with how this turned out, but idk if it'd get any better if I tried again. Ah well. Thanks for reading!


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